


Spare Me Over

by cosimosis (Cosimosis)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Injury, M/M, Napoleon Whump, Near Death Experiences, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosimosis/pseuds/cosimosis
Summary: Napoleon Solo wasn’t a religious man by any means. But after being in the hands of THRUSH for three days, and convinced that it is his last day on earth, doesn't mean he can't pray that Death lets him live.  Just for another year. Just to be with Illya, a little longer.





	1. Chapter 1

Napoleon Solo wasn’t a religious man by any means, only getting confirmed in the church to appease his mother. And, so she could have a spot to bury him if he died in the war. But, that didn’t mean he didn’t wonder from time to time if heaven and hell were actualities. Especially when he was bleeding out and his body unable to move and fight anymore. He laid curled on his side, hand pressing against the gaping wound at the bottom of his ribs. He mentally cataloged the minor injuries; a couple broken fingers, a shoulder that had been dislocated and cruelly put back into place, and he figured his right ankle was either sprained or broken by the way it throbbed. At least at this point, he was still conscious, and could reflect on his life.

It was funny how being in the hands of THRUSH for three days threatened ones existence.

For whatever reason though, he could only think of an old folk song he picked up traveling around America, before joining the war effort. He whispered the first lyric like it was a prayer,

“O Death, won’t you spare me over for another year?”

He knew no one was coming for him, and Death would be arriving soon. But, it was worth a shot to ask, he figured. He had dodged his fate a few times before, and knew that his prayer was useless, since the devil needed to collect his due at some point. But, by God, did he want more time, more than he had ever wanted it before.

The first time he had dodged Death’s cold hands, it was in the middle of the Western Front, in the last months of the war. He was 16, a scared kid, but he had just watched Joseph die. Held Joseph’s hand as he died, watching the last bit of laughter leave his eyes. And Napoleon was selfish; he didn’t want to end up like Joseph. He didn’t want someone to watch him die. He wanted to do something better with his life than go back to living on the streets. He didn’t want to die yet.

From that point on, Death and him had an understanding. He would avoid it, and it would just wait for its chance to get him. The missions for the CIA, and the few for UNCLE, all put him in Death’s path, but he managed to weasel around that cold promise too many times.

_Well, looks like I can’t avoid you_ _this time_ _,_ he thought bitterly. Of all the times for Death to come get him! Just when he was able to be free from the CIA, when he was able to have a friend and confidant in Gaby, and just when Illya and him found each other. Such was the great irony of his life.

Napoleon heard a door opening someways down the hall from him. It was probably the THRUSH agents checking in on him, seeing if he died yet, he figured. And since he hadn’t, hopefully they’d be merciful and put him out of his misery.

He was so tired. Darkness started to cloud the edges of his vision.

With the last energy he could muster, he rolled over on the cold floor, so he could at least be facing the door, which the crack between the floor at it was his only source of light, besides the dim light bulb above him.

_Will THRUSH tell them that I’m dead? I wonder how Illya will handle that_ , he thought. He knew Illya would be quick to anger, destroy a room, probably threaten Waverly before Gaby calms him down, and then mourn for a time before going on with his life. At the thought of Illya, memories of their couple missions flashed before him. They were good partners. Gaby had confronted him just before this one, about his...feelings for Illya. She called him a fool and Illya was in denial. But she could read them like open books. Napoleon had always marveled at her ability to read people, yet denied he was a fool. Napoleon never deserved Illya anyway, so, best not to bring it up.

He regretted his silence.

There were footsteps coming up the hall now, with doors being opened as whomever it was checked the other rooms. The footsteps weren’t urgent. It was more…‘business as usual’ walking. Napoleon knew his time was up.

As he thought about Illya, he was too weak to fight back against his emotions, and he felt a tear slipping from his eye unwillingly. He prayed, one last time as conscious started to leave him,

“O Death, won’t you spare me over another year? Won’t you spare me over...another...year?”

As his vision darkened, the door clicked open, the final thing he saw a pair of cold dark eyes. With the last seconds of consciousness, Napoleon could have swore he heard a snap, like bones breaking. Death was here for him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter. An interlude one really. The next one will be longer.

It was dimly lit in the room where THRUSH had been holding Napoleon. A single bulb flickered over him, casting a shadow on his face. In the pale light, Napoleon looked little more than a broken corpse.

Illya stood in the doorway, his heart in his throat, the body of a scientist with an expertly snapped neck crumpled before him. He heard the whispered plea for life just as the scientist opened the door, having silently sneaked behind the man. UNCLE had finally found and infiltrated the lair with a sizable team, but if only they had been sooner, they would have been able to spare his partner this pain.

He stepped over the scientist’s body and with two long strides, he reached the American, kneeling on the floor beside him. With a gentleness that he didn’t know he possessed, Illya brushed the curls that had strayed off Napoleon’s brow. He bit his lip as he looked over the injuries, the shoulder and the ankle were easily dealt with. But he lifted Napoleon’s shirt to inspect the wound beneath the ribs, unsticking the fabric from the dried blood on the edges of it. The wound, jagged and undoubtedly caused by a dull knife, still dribbled blood, and just by seeing the angry red and the beginnings of inflammation, Illya could tell the wound was turning for the worst.

His fingers twitched, and he had the sudden urge to find the exact people who did this and take his revenge, if they were not already dead.

The urge died down though, when instead his fingers reached to find Napoleon’s pulse. It was thready, but there. “You will get your year. Or more,” he breathed out as he picked his partner up off the cold floor and cradled him close. Carefully he rose and quickly, but gingerly, walked from that horrid room, doing as best he could to not jostle the man in his arms. He followed the shouting from the rest of the infiltration team. The hallway seemed much longer when carrying a half-dead spy. He heard Gaby’s voice best; loud, clear and bright,

“Illya!”

He quickened his pace as much as he could without causing more harm to Napoleon. When he reached the rest of the extraction team, he locked eyes with Gaby. For a moment, he saw concern in her eyes, before she was back to business.

The next minutes were a blur. There were orders being shouted, people being moved out, and Illya carried Napoleon to the helicopter UNCLE had sent in. _He will be fine,_ Illya had to reassure himself. But what his partner had whispered under the halo of the dim light echoed through his mind as he handed the broken spy over to the medical team on board.

For the first time, Illya understood why people prayed.

* * *

It was cold.

Napoleon always knew Death was suppose to be cold. He felt as though he was wading through the silt of a river, cloaked in darkness. But, suddenly in that darkness, he noticed the touch of cold, which was enough to bring his mind out of that river. When he felt the bony, icy hand on his brow, he cracked open his eyes just for a second, and was blinded by a bright light. Maybe Death took him to heaven by mistake, since someone like him could never be there. He must of startled Death, because its hand moved from his forehead. It spoke, voice deep, and barely above a whisper,

“Shhh, Napoleon, rest more.”

 _Wait,_ he thought, _I – I know that voice..._ But as the voice commanded, he faded back into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

It felt like an eternity in darkness, fighting against a frigid river, that threatened to sweep him away. The strange thing was, was that Napoleon knew he was alive. When he had first awoken for that brief moment, he heard that wonderful voice. He thought for a second Death had been talking. Oh how wrong he had been. Instead, he was being made to fight, because Death was tired of being unable to claim him. If he lost his footing in the river, he’d be gone.

He felt too warm and too cold simultaneously. Every single inch of him hurt, but more so the injuries he had sustained. But, he was a strong willed bastard, if anything good could be said about him. He heard through his hazy mind two familiar voices every so often. Gaby’s sweet words lulled him to rest easier. But Illya’s voice was an anchor, something he could hold on to in the murkiness of his struggles.  
To his surprise though, all he ever heard in his darkness was Illya saying,  
“Spare him over, for another year. Please.”  


* * *

 

The second time he woke up, he couldn’t suppress the groan of pain that passed his lips. Everything still hurt, but at least he didn’t feel as though he was engulfed in fire one moment and then sitting in the Arctic the next. Before he knew it, he heard the scrape of a chair being moved closer and Illya was there beside him, with a gentle hand to his uninjured shoulder.

“Cowboy?”

With as much of a grin he could muster, Napoleon looked at his partner, “H-Hey, Peril.”

Illya could feel hope rise in his heart. His lips twitched upwards,

“Тебе все еще больно. You should sleep.”

“I will...but, tell me...how long, and where –“ Napoleon stopped and grimaced as that damned wound just below his ribs throbbed. Illya nodded, and instantly, his expression darkened.

“We are in Italy. THRUSH moved you from France quickly. You were...gone for three days. I found you, not far from Rome, after we followed THRUSH. And you missed tracker in shoe again.”

Napoleon gave a light laugh, “Of course I did.”

Illya paused for a second, his eyes lingering to where that horrid tear in Napoleon’s still healing flesh was. He struggled to find the right words. Through gritted teeth he continued,

“I heard you, when we found where you were. You asked to be spared from death. You were badly hurt. You still are.”

Illya started to tap his finger, thinking of the past few days. He was surprised when Napoleon’s hand covered his. Napoleon’s voice was soft,

“Illya, I’m here. I was spared.”

The Russian’s cold eyes locked with his partner’s. If Napoleon wasn’t mistaken, and he often wasn’t, he saw a flicker of true remorse in those eyes.

“I know. But you almost were not. If we didn’t find you when we did – ”

“I knew you’d find me.”

Illya shook his head. His Cowboy ( _his_...he’d figure that thought out later) put too much faith into him. What if he hadn’t tracked THRUSH through southern France, all the way to Italy, as accurately as he did? What if…what if Napoleon hadn’t had the tracker in his shoe again? Illya’s gave a small laugh,

“You really are a terrible spy, Cowboy. If you found that tracker, I would not have found you so easily.”

“I guess being terrible has its benefits,” Napoleon responded with a tired smile. His eyes felt heavy again, and he let them close for a moment too long, as Illya noticed.

“You should get some more sleep, Napoleon.”

“Only my mother calls me ‘Napoleon,’ Peril,” he muttered.

As his partner fell back to sleep, Illya’s eyes flickered to Napoleon’s hand which still covered his. He had watched over this man for days on end, watching him fight of a fever that didn’t want to break no matter what the doctors did. Even Gaby didn’t stay as long as he had. Even when the doctors kicked him out for the night, he was back early the next day. Perhaps...Cowboy was his, in a sense, for the American had a hold on his heart. Gaby had seen right though his charade of denial the first day he stayed in the hospital, watching over Napoleon. “Tell him, when he wakes up, or I’ll tell him for you,” she had said.

Illya allowed himself a small smile,

“You’ll be the death of me, Napoleosha. Won't you spare me over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done. And it is awful, and I'm sorry.
> 
> Тебе все еще больно. = You're still hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> Was meant to be a one shot, but may end up as a 2 or 3 chapter story. Oops.


End file.
